


The Best Christmas Gift

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, Declarations Of Love, Humor, Innuendo, Love, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, No Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9074245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: "Dinner?""Starving."John receives an extraordinary Christmas Gift.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had planned to post this little bit on Christmas Eve, but the boys insisted on having it their way by taking the story in a slightly different direction. :) So here is my little contribution to the Christmas spirit, 'tho just a bit late. 
> 
> I wish everyone a peaceful and if not happy, at least content 2017. My love to all....

Too knackered after an unusually busy Christmas Eve shift at the surgery, and a noisy tube ride with last minute shoppers, John struggled to pull together dinner from leftovers in the fridge. The ‘thing with the peas,’ Sherlock’s favorite, warmed in the oven, awaiting the consulting detective’s arrival. 

John grinned at the precariously hung fairy lights around the mirror above the mantle. Obviously decorated before something more interesting captured Sherlock’s ever curious mind, it was for John the thought that mattered most, and he was pleased that Sherlock at the least made an effort. And, of course, a sprig of mistletoe hung from center of the arch to the kitchen. John’s husband was a kissing fool, a behaviour that the good doctor happily and shamelessly encouraged.

Sherlock’s laptop played a gentle Christmas selection via Spotify, its keyboard supporting a note in his precise hand that affirmed he’d return at seven. Glancing at the time on the monitor, John had just enough time for a quick shower.

With time to spare, John, clothed in flannel pyjamas, dressing gown and woollen socks, shuffled to the sitting room. The sight before his eyes brought him to an abrupt stop in the middle of the room. Candles alight danced on nearly every surface. The fire in the grate cast a warm glow over the perfectly set table standing before it. John didn’t bother to swipe at the tears that blurred his vision.

Sherlock was home well before his seven o’clock promise to have accomplished the additional preparation. As he stood there in stunned amazement, John sensed rather than heard Sherlock’s approach. Long arms circled his shoulders from behind as his husband loomed over him, bumping his cheek against John’s.

With a sudden and audible hiss, John turned his cheek away.

“John?”

“It’s okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock came round him then, the rumple between his brows fully committed to his concern, his long, elegant fingers gently feathering his cheek. 

“John, you have a spectacular bruise...on your cheekbone.”

“Yes.”

“How-”

“A long line of snot-filled children and one angry five-year-old who didn’t fancy a tetanus jab, and will one day be a very good soccer player.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sorry, lost in translation,” John said with a grimace. “I got kicked in the face.”

Sherlock frowned, leaning in to press a whisper-soft kiss to the multiple-hued bruise that ached more with each passing moment.

“Did you use the last of the peas?”

John chuckled. “Maybe later, but thank you.”

Sherlock captured his lips with a kiss. “Missed you,” he whispered. 

“I missed you, too.”

“Dinner?”

“Starving.”

It was only when Sherlock led the way to the kitchen that John noticed Sherlock also wore flannel pyjamas, socks and his best dressing gown.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“When I was in the shower...did you-?”

Sherlock stared back at him. “Did I what?”

“How did you know…”

“That you were going to wear pyjamas rather than something else?”

“Yeah.”

“I opened the door and looked in.”

“Oh.”

“Unlike my brother who fancies himself able to read minds, I extrapolate facts, John. You know my methods.”

John had no answer to that, but Sherlock’s slightly indignant retort made him smile.

“I also looked to see what you had prepared for dinner,” Sherlock purred in the voice that kindled a warmth deep in John’s belly. 

John held back what felt like a chortle building in his chest. The man could read an autopsy report in that voice and still curl his toes. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock offered over his shoulder as he removed their dinner from the oven, and placed it on the worktop.

“For..?” 

“The thing with the peas.”

“Oh. It’s nothing special.”

“It is when you prepared it after a difficult day at the surgery. It means a lot to me.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sherlock kissed his forehead and folded him into a rib-bruising embrace. “Is it ready?” he asked before bestowing another mind-altering kiss to John’s mouth.

“It can be.”

“Ambiguous, John,” Sherlock whispered with a smirk, bending to kiss him again.

Kissing fool, indeed, John thought. Gorgeous kissing fool. He heard himself sigh. Not a fool at all. “Now it’s ready.”

Sherlock carried the serving dish to the table where he had placed the chairs next to each other facing the fire.

“Intimate.” 

“Yes, very intimate.”

John drew in a sharp breath. He couldn’t recall speaking aloud. 

Sherlock held out the chair for him and once seated, poured their drink. “I wasn’t here when you came home because I needed a non-alcoholic beverage.”

“Oh? Why is that?” John picked up the bottle to examine its label.

“I want to remember every minute of this night.”

“With sparkling red grape juice?”

“I also have white grape juice if you prefer.”

“It’s just leftovers with peas, and I don’t think the peas will notice the difference.”

“No, I spoke with them earlier, they were non-committal.”

“Berk.”

Sherlock grinned at him. “John?

John gazed into Sherlock’s lovely blue eyes. “Yes, my love?”

“Thank you for chasing away all our friends so we could spend this night alone, just the two of us.”

Chuckling at Sherlock’s phrasing, John stole a kiss. 

“To be able to spend time alone with you, I would chase away the King of England.” John knew at once that the long ago moment was lost to Sherlock, or, more likely, he had been too pissed to remember the night.

“Shall we dine now, John? Or would you like a few more minutes of stimulating dialogue?”

“Still starving, Sherlock.”

“Very well.”

Their dinner wasn’t fancy, but all the more satisfying as they teasingly fed each other several times. Mrs. Hudson’s fairy cakes added the touch of sweet to their kisses, but it was the moments they spent together that meant the most to John. The light that sparkled in his husband’s eyes confirmed to John that Sherlock felt it, too.

“Do you like the music I chose?”

“Very much, Sherlock, thank you.”

John felt the warmth of his husband’s gaze long before he looked up to catch the shine in Sherlock’s eyes that had nothing to do with the firelight.

“I love you so much, John.”

“I know, I can feel your love wrapped around my heart.”

“And I, yours.”

“I feel like my heart is going to burst out of my chest with my love for you. Do you know that?”

“Yes, John, I do. And my love for you feels much the same.”

John curled his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him close. “We are so sodding pathetic.”

Sherlock smiled. “Pathetically besotted.”

“Right.”

“John?”

“Yes, my love?”

“I know we agreed to wait until the morning to open our gifts, but I have one I’d like you to have tonight.”

“But I don’t have one for you to open now, Sherlock.”

“I think this is one we’ll both enjoy. Just wait right here, John, I’ll fetch it from the cupboard.”

With brisk strides that seemed oddly exuberant, yet incompatible with the man, Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen. For several seconds it was silent until John heard the padding of his husband’s socked feet.

Sherlock moved toward him with all the grace of an elegant dancer...with a simple red bow adorning his riotous curls. “Happy Christmas, my love.”

“Oh.” John grinned until his cheeks ached. 

Sherlock took John’s hand, guiding him toward their bedroom. As they stepped through the doorway, Sherlock paused, taking him into his arms, and pressing a kiss to his ear. John shivered in anticipation, holding fast to his husband’s waist.

“John, my love, the keeper of my heart,” he whispered against John’s ear.

“Yes?”

“There is no King of England.”


End file.
